


meet me in the woods tonight

by fantasticdevilry



Category: Original Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:28:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28307517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fantasticdevilry/pseuds/fantasticdevilry
Summary: more tabletop AU stuff, set on this universe's version of Christmas Eve
Comments: 1
Kudos: 5





	meet me in the woods tonight

**Author's Note:**

> it gets spicy

Snow fell grey in Lacrimose, heavy, wet flakes tainted with ash. It coated the city's streets in a dark slurry, staining the legs of trousers and seeping through holes in boots. People lost their footing on the black ice, carriage wheels broke as the wood expanded and contracted, and Frey was busier than ever at Lady Edith's Infirmary. 

Bones needed setting. People overindulged—they always did during this time of year—and injured themselves in myriad ways that might have been gruesomely funny if Frey wasn't the one responsible for treating them. Evening shifts turned into overnight shifts. Sometimes, all Frey could manage upon getting home was feeding their cat before stumbling into bed in a deep sleep, their decontamination ritual forgotten in the face of such bone-deep exhaustion.

"I'm sorry I haven't been able to stop by," Frey said to the potted thyme on their windowsill. Their most delicate flowers and herbs had been relocated either indoors or to their greenhouse; now there was scarcely a visible surface in Frey's house. They clutched a cup of tea in their fingers, unwilling to venture out into the cold, dark morning just yet. "The hospital always needs me on hand more than usual this close to the Day of Dues."

They could practically hear Andrew's scoff. Doubtless he was displeased that Frey was spending time with _Obsolites_ instead of him. Frey was convinced they'd been making progress tempering his scorn—the fact that Lacrimose was still standing was a testament to that much—but asking his pride not to be wounded by such a slight was impossible.

"They don't deserve you, _a stór_ ," Andrew had said once when they left, fingers digging into Frey's arm with a desperation he couldn't disguise. "I do."

Frey put their teacup in the sink. "I promise I'll be there on Mercy's Night." They tucked a strand of black hair behind their ear and smiled softly down at the thyme, where it maintained a huffy, distant silence in its clay pot. "I'm looking forward to it. I miss you dearly when we're apart, you know."

More chilly quiet. That was fine. Frey moved to their living room, taking a seat on the sofa to tie the black ribbon laces on their boots with quick, delicate hands. They'd grown bolder with Andrew as time passed, infinitely pleased with themself whenever they, by all accounts an inferior, lowly creature, managed to make a fey lord blush. It was always easier with physical distance between them, where he couldn't do something as infuriating as sweep them off their feet. 

"I think about you whenever I'm gone." They caressed the broad, deep green leaves of the monstera beside their couch. "About what we'll do when we see each other again." Their fingers traced the splits in the frond, danced along the thick vein running down the center. "I hope you're looking forward to it, too."

Content that he was reeling all the way in the wood, Frey abruptly stopped, plucked their heavy wool coat off the rack by their front door, and swirled it elegantly around their shoulders. "Oh, and I'll be picking up your present after work, so I'll be in late again. Don't worry about me. Have a good day…" Frey paused, and stumbled over the words the way they always did despite their best attempts, "... _a-a mhuirnín_."

They'd never been able to say it when they were together, self-consciousness gripping their throat. It made their cheeks heat up slightly, embarrassment fluttering in their stomach as they struggled to repeat Andrew's own language back to him; their momentary bashfulness was nothing compared to the burst of affection that rocked through Andrew's entire body as their words reached his ears.

* * *

Mercy's Night this year was bitterly cold, and Frey's eyes stung with tears the moment they stepped out their back door. Yes, it was compounded by not wearing a coat, but it wasn't as if they had far to travel… and, in their defense, it would have been a shame to cover such a pretty dress. None of that stopped them from shivering, though, as their shoes crunched snow underfoot. Frey concentrated hard as they walked forward, gathering the skirt of their burgundy dress in their fist. Within moments, the smog-choked city sky vanished and the wrought iron fence of Frey's garden melted into maple trees that welcomed them with open arms.

The big, soft flakes of snow clinging to Frey's hair and mask began to melt within moments, even as a gust of wind sent a final flurry in behind them. Their body still trembled as they looked around, clutching a small box in their arms, wrapped in green and gold.

Winter never reached the Tulgey Wood. Even this close to the solstice, it stayed a crisp, pleasant autumn evening, with a purple sunset sky and fireflies blinking in the dark. Further in, casting long shadows among the trees, Frey spotted something new—the warm orange glow of a fire.

Long fingers draped over their shoulders.

" _A Mhaighdean Mhuire_ , petal, look at you shaking," Andrew murmured. "Would it have killed you to wear a coat, fool?" 

"I would've just taken it off as soon as I got in anyway," Frey replied through chattering teeth. Andrew had begun steering them both towards the fire pit he'd built—conjured, really; he wasn't going to haul rocks and dig in the dirt for anyone—as they spoke. "You're supposed to tell me how pretty I look, you know. I got all dressed up for you."

They both stopped in their tracks, and Andrew turned Frey towards him, hands still on their shoulders, examining them by the light of the fire. Frey held their head taller, shook out their thick mess of black hair where the wind tousled it. The dark red dress caught the firelight; the bare skin of their collarbone and shoulders shone wet where the snow was already melting. It was the only time Andrew had ever seen Frey in short sleeves, though they still wore wrist-length black gloves. 

Frey thought they looked rather nice. Judging by the look on his face—eyebrows raising, his grip tightening almost imperceptibly—so did Andrew.

He tapped his chin, pretending to size them up as he regained his composure. "You certainly do look pretty. _But_ ," Andrew said, and Frey's head tilted at the mischievous glint in his four smiling eyes, "you'll look even prettier when I give you your present."

Frey drew in a breath. The air in their mask smelled of jasmine and violet; the air in the woods smelled of bonfire smoke. "You… got me a gift?" Their voice was quieter than they intended.

It was Andrew's turn to look confused, brows furrowing. "Why does that surprise you—that I'd get you a present? Do you truly find me so cold?" His tone was still light and a smile played at the edges of his mouth, as though this were mere banter, but Frey heard an edge of hurt threatening to slip in.

The only panacea Frey knew for it was honesty. They took his hand in their free one—still cautiously balancing his present in the crook of an arm—and pulled him to sit beside the fire. "No, no." Their backs rested against a mossy log, shoulders touching, because even that distance was unbearable after weeks apart. "I'm happy," they said, voice still so soft that they had to force themself to say again, clearer, "I'm happy."

He still appeared unconvinced, that familiar feral cat caution lingering on his sharp face, and so Frey continued. "For you to indulge me in a tradition from a life you left behind, all for my sake… it means a great deal to me."

A flush passed over Andrew's face; a widening of the eyes, a moment where his mouth opened and closed without sound. Then it changed quick as the wind, his stunned silence lifting to a breezy smirk. "Well… if I was _really_ indulging in your silly traditions, I'd be waiting to open _this_ tomorrow."

Andrew deftly plucked the green and gold present from Frey's arms before they could even open their mouth to protest. His eyes were alight as he unwrapped his gift with a surprising amount of restraint; the ribbon carefully untied, the cloth unfurled slowly, like he intended to preserve it. Now unwrapped, he held the box in one large hand, examining the label intently by the firelight.

"It's absinthe," Frey admitted, suddenly nervous. "I wasn't sure if you drank alcohol, but I thought of you, because—um, because people have taken to calling it the green fairy, and—"

And it felt silly now, after such a sentimental moment. Frey hadn't intended it to be a production, really—they'd only meant to spend time together, to give him something that might make him—

Andrew laughed, throwing his head back with mirth, and the sound was music in its loud inelegance. It soothed Frey's worries instantly, a content glow washing over them as they watched him wipe his eyes. "Oh, I love it, you delightful little creature!" he praised when his giggles died down, and leaned forward to plant a kiss on the beak of Frey's mask.

"The woman on the label even looks like you." A beautiful young woman, clad in gauzy green fabric, held a glass of absinthe in her hand as she reclined on a chaise, red hair spilling over her shoulders. The look on her face managed to be both playful and lofty all at once. Regal and careless.

"Does she now," Andrew said, unconvinced.

Frey looked at the way his auburn hair caught the light, at the effortless grace he carried himself with even in a body so new. The curve of his neck; the urge to cast off their mask and press their face against it.

"Somewhat," Frey replied.

"Do you want me to pour us both glasses? Isn't there some sort of… ritual with drinking this?"

"Oh, no, you don't," Frey said sternly. "Not before you give me my present."

Andrew raised an eyebrow, which continued to be a bizarre gesture to witness on a man with two sets of eyes. "What happened to tradition, then? Thought it _meant a great deal_ to you."

Frey shrugged in a way they hoped looked nonchalant. "You've already broken it. What does another step matter?"

"Ah, I see… you're _that_ impatient, are you?" Andrew asked, his grin growing wider with each syllable.

 _Hrk_. Caught. "That's not—"

"I don't blame you, _a stór_. You'll love it. But what are we going to do tomorrow, hm?" He'd placed the absinthe bottle carefully on the forest floor between them as he spoke. "You won't have anything to unwrap, and I don't want to break your frail little mortal heart over it."

"I'll have something to unwrap."

The meaning either completely sailed past Andrew's head or he was no longer wilting like a lily in the face of Frey's boldness, which meant they'd have to try harder. As it was, Andrew only gave an exaggerated sigh, as though preparing to perform a kingly act of burdensome benevolence. "If you insist, petal. Close your eyes. Can you stave off your impatience long enough not to peek?" 

Frey huffed, closing their eyes and putting their palms over the glass lenses of their mask for good measure. "Are you satisfied, your lordship?"

"I will be shortly," Andrew said, and Frey heard the sound of fabric rustling—as though Andrew were making frantic arm motions they couldn't see. Then shuffling as he moved to stand behind them, an arm slung across their shoulders. "Right. Open your eyes."

Frey might have felt embarrassed about how quickly their eyes snapped open and their hands flew away if not for the sight before them. There was only a stunned, soft gasp as they looked at the dress hanging from the tree bough beside them.

It was unlike anything Frey had ever seen before—if the dress they'd worn to the Lovelace's masquerade had gotten them ejected, this would never allow them entry. An all-black gown, elegant and immodest, with lace as delicate as spiderwebs. Raven feathers blossomed outward from the shoulders and cuffs. Dark fabric pooled in the leaves on the ground where it fell, seeming to absorb all light that hit it.

"The orb-weavers were working on it for some time," Andrew admitted, "so it probably ended up being for the best that you were busy, hm?" His voice wavered strangely, higher than usual, and Frey realized _he_ was nervous, too. Somehow, even presenting them the most magnificent gift they'd ever received, he was still managing to entertain doubts that it would be good enough.

"I love you," Frey blurted, which wasn't what they'd meant to say, but wasn't wrong, either. Dizzy, feeling their face heat, they kept speaking, "I-I love it. Andrew… this is _beautiful_. I… I really don't know what to say."

Andrew was quiet for a moment. "Then say the first part again." There was no false bravado, only a trembling, exposed heart placed into Frey's hands.

There was only sound—the fire crackling, crickets chirping, the absence of Andrew and Frey's breath as they held it. And then the slow exhale of truth, echoing in their mask: "I love you."

It was a far way for Andrew to lean down, but he pressed a kiss to the back of their head as he tightened his arms across their body. " _Tá grá agam duit_ ," he whispered into their black hair. " _Beidh grá agam duit go deo_."

Frey knew. They raised their hands to his and squeezed, leaning back against his body. At some point, they'd simply come to believe it. Being loved by him was so easy, now.

"We've certainly come a long way, haven't we?" they asked, tracing their fingers over the hair on his arms. He nodded in response. "Do you want me to try the dress on?"

"Please. I want to make sure it fits perfectly." Still, it was with some reluctance that Andrew released Frey from his grasp and circled around to their front.

"...should I ask how in the world you got my measurements?"

The smile returned to his face. "Let me maintain _some_ mystery, would you?"

Frey extended one hand to him, as though they were a queen presenting a ring to be kissed. Andrew looked down, and then back to Frey's face again, the question plain as day on his expression. 

"I can't try it on without taking some things off first, can I?" Frey said, flicking their wrist at him. "Go on."

They had never taken off their gloves in the woods before.

When Andrew's wide-eyed shock recovered, he dropped to one knee, taking Frey's hand in his. With a precision that made the surgeon proud, he slipped his spindly fingers beneath the edge of their black glove, pressing against their yielding skin. It was a simple thing, to peel away the leather like the rind of a fruit, and yet he moved with agonizing slowness before pressing a kiss to their palm, soft and bare, warm with euphoric anxiety.

"You could stand to do the other one faster," Frey said, forcing levity as though their mouth hadn't gone completely dry.

Andrew's laugh was small and quiet, like leaves rustling, as he did not obey. 

After Frey's hands were freed—strange, how even the air here felt like magic—they turned around and, taking a steadying inhale, tapped the mask's leather strap.

"This next."

He didn't ask if they were sure; he didn't try to tell them "you don't have to". Frey loved him even more for that trust, basking in it as his fingers moved with that same reverence once again. When the last buckle slid open, Frey lifted the stifling leather from their face, taking their first real breath of air in the Tulgey Wood. 

Even as their heart hammered, years of practiced panic beating a terrified staccato, they had never felt more powerful. The mask fell to the forest floor, jasmine and thyme and primrose spilling out in a floral cornucopia across the leaves. Why couldn't they see before—that this had always been home?

Nothing in their life was easier than letting Andrew see their face for the first time. No expectations to disappoint, no desires to live up to—only love met with love.

"Well." Frey straightened their back, lifting their chin. Looking him in the eyes, with no barriers between them, hadn't stopped feeling electrifying yet. "Here I am."

Frey watched Andrew's pupils dilate as their mouth moved. Aside from their bare hands, it was the only part of their body entirely unknown to him, covered by the cloth masks they'd preferred lately over their full plague costume. "There you are," he said.

"Would you care to kiss me, or are you simply going t—"

The force of it would've sent Frey sprawling, were it not for Andrew's arm wrapped around their waist. Dreams—and they'd spent a lot of time dreaming about this—couldn't have prepared them for all the new things they fell for in the span of a few short moments. They'd known how his mouth felt, the heat and softness of it, but had never anticipated how his stubble would feel when it brushed their face, or how he tasted, or the way he caressed their cheek like no touch was enough.

Frey grabbed the collar of Andrew's coat to pull him closer, and placed a moment too late why the gesture felt so familiar.

"You'll rip it again," Andrew murmured, voice husky with affection.

"Then take it off or make yourself a new one."

"I suppose this means you'll not be trying on your present?"

Frey smiled, and for a split second Andrew thought he saw a flash of teeth as sharp as his own in that grin. "Didn't I already say? I can't try it on without taking some things off first."

**Author's Note:**

> thank you to my Call of Cthulhu group for making this past year tolerable, I treasure you all very much and I am looking forward to making more memories together


End file.
